


Far From Home

by TheTiniestTortoise



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bickering, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Gen, Graphic descriptions, Monsters, Not Canon Compliant, RDR2/Witcher 3 Crossover, Spooky specters, Trolls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-10-13 02:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20575196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestTortoise/pseuds/TheTiniestTortoise
Summary: We all know Geralt of Rivia is no stranger to portals and world-jumping. When he falls through a strange portal and lands in a new world he's never seen before, he has to make some unlikely allies if he wants to find his way home. Arthur Morgan already has an outlaw gang to worry about, but facing down wraiths, vampires, hags and trolls? Monsters and other supernatural creatures keep showing up in Arthur's world, and Geralt is the only one with the skills and knowledge to deal with them. They are going to have to find a way to help each other if things are to go back to normal and Geralt is to find the young woman he's searching for...[Takes place somewhere vaguely within the events of both Red Dead Redemption 2 and The Witcher 3, though for my own well-being I am willfully ignoring certain canon events *cough*TB*cough*. We're just here to have fun and kill monsters, people!]AUTHOR’s NOTE: sorry this story has been on hiatus for a while, but I swear I ain’t given up on it! Just need to get through the holidays and back into the groove





	1. Stranger in a Strange Land

Arthur Morgan thought of himself as a rather simple man. He had simple emotions, wanted only for simple things, tried to take care of his problems in the simplest of manners. Right now, his problem was that John Marston was simply a goddamn smart-mouthed idiot. So his simple solution had been to ride well away from his gang’s camp in order to blow off steam before John caught Arthur’s fist with his nose.

So there he stood, perched on the sand at the edge of the Dakota River, slowly reeling in his fishing line; he wasn’t much good at it, but fishing always gave him the solitude he needed to think. The steadily flowing water glinted in the sunlight of the mid-afternoon. The fish were there, he could see one jumping out of the water every now and then, but his luck had been shit so far. _Story of my life,_ he thought a little bitterly.

Arthur stopped reeling and hooked the pole under his arm so that he could rummage in his satchel for a pack of cigarettes. He plucked one out, stuck it between his lips and then proceeded to search his pockets for his matchbook.

A sudden feeling overtook him. His fingers stopped searching just as he found the little book. He stilled, angled his head up, squinting his eyes off into the distance. He felt an odd pressure building up between his ears, almost like the way you could feel the pressure in the air drop in the split-second before dynamite exploded. Like all the oxygen was being sucked right out of the air.

This feeling only lasted for a second or two before a bang like a thunderclap erupted in the sky somewhere above him and off to his right. A gaping hole opened up in the sky, a dark void ringed with bright fire, almost blinding in its sudden and apocalyptic appearance.

_“Jesus Christ!”_ Arthur sputtered and the pole fell from his grasp, clattering into the sand at his feet. He lifted his arm to shield his eyes, the other hand instinctively reaching for the butt of the revolver holstered at his hip.

That thunder-sound continued, loud and steady, and that dark void pulsed with light. There was something high-pitched hidden in it, but it could have just been his poor ears ringing. All the hairs on his body felt like they were standing up, like he was being jolted with a weak surge of electricity.

Suddenly, a body fell from the hole in the sky. It was small and lanky, had almost a skeletal appearance. It screamed and screeched when it hit the ground, rolling awkwardly as it attempted to get to its spindly feet. And then, another one fell. And then a third. Arthur took a few lurching steps backwards, almost tripped over his fishing pole.

Finally, a fourth body fell through. This one was most definitely man-shaped. He hit the ground and rolled, coming up on one knee. He wavered for a second, almost looked like he was going to be sick, and then his gaze narrowed on the screeching things, and a mask of intense focus smothered his ashen-pale features.

He clutched a gleaming sword in one hand, and a second later that sword was slicing through the air, taking off a creature’s head in one smooth arc as the thing lunged at him head-on. The head flew from the body, oily black blood splattering as the man fixed his focus on the next monster.

The other two were on their feet now, growling and screeching and making furious clicks with their horrifically sharp teeth. As Arthur took all this in, he began to really see how truly monstrous they were; they had globs of fatty flesh hanging from their jowls and sagging from the joints at their elbows and knees. Freakishly elongated skulls housed beady, glowing eyes. And the _smell. _The odor that suddenly assaulted Arthur’s senses was reminiscent of certain mutilated animal carcasses he sometimes came across, half-eaten and left to soak in the rain and bake in the sun until they finally decomposed completely.

A blast of heat blew Arthur’s hat right off his head as a gout of fire erupted from the man’s free hand, seemingly from out of nowhere, setting the creatures aflame. They hissed and clicked, writhed and screamed and tried to swat the fire from their hideous skin.

By now Arthur had his gun drawn, though it shook something awful in his trembling hand. His mind was a blank; normally he’d have emptied the chambers and already reloaded by this point, but this was some shit the likes of which he had never seen. All he could do was watch, mouth agape, that cigarette dangling precariously, long forgotten.

The pale man let out a low grunt and charged at the creatures, bringing the sword up to take the head off another and, all in the same swing, spinning to come around again and cut the body of the third clean in half.

Arthur finally found the wherewithal to spit the cigarette to the ground, trained his revolver on the crazed-looking white-haired man, threw back the hammer and pulled the trigger.

The man’s head immediately whipped up and he raised his free hand again just as the gun went off. A blinding flash erupted that sent Arthur stumbling back another step. He heard a sound almost of glass shattering, and then the man was stalking towards him, furious and overwhelmingly unhurt.

“What in the…goddamn…?” Arthur heard his own voice, sounding high-pitched and far away. He took another few steps backwards, almost tripped over a rock this time, before he heard scurrying and clicking and growling behind him. He was scared to turn his back on the white-haired man, but whipped around to see another one of those monstrosities coming straight for him from the bushes off to his right. Somehow, another must have fallen from that hole in the sky without his seeing it.

He aimed the gun and fired every single round he had left into the thing. It grunted and screamed and black blood started pouring forth from the holes the bullets had punched into its flesh, but otherwise it seemed horrifyingly unperturbed. It kept coming for him.

“Get back, you idiot!”

Arthur turned his head to glance briefly at the strange man, barely taking in what he was yelling even though he was speaking perfect English. He was about to bend his arm back and just throw the whole damn revolver at the creature coming towards him when a powerful blast of air sent him flying off his feet and crashing on his back into the river.

Arthur yelled and then went under just enough to suck some water into his lungs. He thrashed and managed to half-sit himself up, coughing and trying like hell to clear out his airways. He heard a squeal and a sick thud, and when he finally was able to suck in a big, clean breath and focus on his surroundings once again, he found the tip of that sword poised just an inch or so away from his throat.

He swallowed thickly and his eyes wandered up the length of the blade until they landed on the man it belonged to. White hair pulled back, a short white beard. A huge scar slicing an arc down over his left eye. Speaking of eyes, his were like a goddamn cat’s; golden-colored, with long narrow pupils. He was wearing some sort of strange armor; the only thing Arthur could equate it to was that worn by ancient knights, but even then, the resemblance was a mighty stretch at best.

The man was breathing heavily. He eyed Arthur with that intense, unnerving focus, glancing around at their surroundings every so often, checking his perimeters. “Where am I?”

Arthur blinked. He coughed again, and the forward motion moved his windpipe dangerously close to the point of that bloody sword. “New…New Hanover.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. He frowned and then looked back over his shoulder. The hole in the sky was gone. He let out a raspy sigh and bowed his head, the fingers of his free hand coming up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. _“Fucking portals.”_

Arthur sat there in the shallows of the river, silent and completely flummoxed.

The man sneered and let his hand drop. He looked at Arthur, almost like how an entomologist would examine a particularly interesting cockroach. “Well…you appear to be human, and we appear to speak the same language, so that’s a start. I’m looking for someone. A young woman. Ashen hair, green eyes. Scar on her eye just like mine. Seen her?”

Arthur’s tongue darted out to wet his lips - just about the only part of him that was dry - and he shook his head. “Ain’t ever seen nobody that looks like you, mister. Where, uh…where the hell’d you come from?”

The man straightened, withdrawing the sword a few inches. “Another world. Another dimension, maybe. I’m still not quite sure how it all works.” He narrowed his eyes at Arthur once again. “That weapon. You fired it at me. You gonna try that again?”

Arthur shook his head vehemently. He’d only had the revolver on him, and that had flown out of his hand when that blast of air knocked him off his feet. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do much with his hunting knife. He was currently licked, and since the man hadn’t deigned to kill him yet, he figured his best and simplest option was just to play nice.

“Alright…” The man shifted on his feet and then swung the sword over his shoulder. It went smoothly into the sheath strapped across his back, just beside a second sword. “What’s your name?”

“Arthur.”

The man nodded once. “Geralt of Rivia,” he said as he extended his hand.

Arthur just looked at the man’s gloved hand for a moment before gingerly reaching up to take hold of it and letting Geralt help him to his feet.

“What the hell were those things?”

“Nekkers. Necrophages.”

Arthur looked at him with a blank expression.

Geralt sighed, waving a hand in the air impatiently. “Carrion-eaters. They prowl around cemeteries and mass graves, war-torn areas…places where they can feed. One minute I was in Velen, culling a nest of them, the next minute…I was here.”

“And what the hell are you, some kind of…knight errant or somethin’?” Arthur eyed the man’s swords, taking note that he had neither holsters nor guns on his person. Just the two blades and some kind of god-awful power that let him shoot flames and deflect bullets.

Geralt had tilted his head to the side, eyes focused on the sliced up bodies that were currently stinking up the general area around where they stood. His gaze cut back to Arthur, those golden eyes of his twinkling unnervingly bright. “I’m a Witcher.”


	2. A Roach by Any Other Name

“So, let me get this straight. You kill...monsters? That’s it? That’s what you do?” 

“Yes. It’s what I’ve trained to do practically my entire life. My kind, we’re...somewhat indispensable. At least, in my world.” 

Arthur shook his head, still entirely bewildered by this strange man. They were currently riding Arthur’s thoroughbred, Enid, through the muddy and rutted main thoroughfare of Valentine. Not that Arthur particularly liked the town all that much, but Geralt insisted he needed a horse and Arthur insisted he needed a drink. Valentine was the closest town that offered both.

He guided Enid up to the hitching post in front of Worth’s General Store and slipped a peppermint from his pocket to give to the animal before they dismounted. 

Geralt hopped off the mare’s back and looked around, noticing fairly quickly that he was getting odd stares from the folk milling about up and down the streets. He averted his eyes; townsfolk in his own world had enough bad superstitions about Witchers, and based on Arthur’s initial reaction, folk here weren’t sure to be much different. “So...the stable?” 

“Yeah, yeah...s’just down that way,” Arthur replied absently, pointing a finger off to their left as he looped Enid’s reins over the hitching post. 

Geralt turned to look, spotted the large barn at the end of the muddy thoroughfare, and then turned back. “Uh...” He cleared his throat and reached down to open a small leather pouch that hung from his belt. “Will they take these as payment?” 

Arthur huffed out a breath, exasperated. He hadn’t thought about the fact that, if the man even had any money, it surely wasn’t likely to be accepted here. He looked down at Geralt’s open palm and his jaw dropped. A pile of gold coins glinted and winked at him in the last rays of the evening sunshine. The idea of robbing him flashed through Arthur’s mind, but it fled quickly enough; the man was deadly even without those damn swords strapped across his back. “Is...is that gold?” 

Geralt nodded. “Gold Crowns, yes. Is that worth something here?”

“Well, yeah! Jesus...yeah, it’s worth somethin’. Worth a hell of a lot, in fact.” 

“Good. Where should I meet you?” 

Arthur blinked and then shook his head, seemed to snap out of whatever haze he’d fallen into at the sight of such money. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the building just behind him, right next door to Worth’s. “Smithfield’s. The saloon. I’ll be in there.” 

A good half an hour later, Arthur was slamming back his fifth shot of whiskey and finally starting to feel some sense of normalcy returning. He’d rather hoped the strange man would just not bother showing up to meet him at all and he could ride back to Horseshoe Overlook like nothing had ever happened, but that hope was crushed when he looked up at the sound of the saloon doors banging shut and there Geralt stood inside the entrance. He narrowed his eyes, watched the man scan the room, and raised a hand to catch the Witcher’s attention. 

Geralt spied his new acquaintance immediately and made his way past a table full of men drinking and playing some kind of card game. He nodded at a girl in a corset and long skirts leaned back against the wall; working, he supposed. This place didn’t seem all that much different from his own home, and for that he found himself grateful as he wasn’t exactly sure how the hell he was even going to get back.

Arthur held up two fingers to the barkeep, nodding appreciatively as the man put another shot glass down and proceeded to fill it alongside Arthur’s empty one. He pulled some coins from his coat pocket and slid them across the bar before turning to assess the self-styled monster hunter. “So?”

Geralt took the shot from the bar top, held it in his hand for a moment as he eyed the other man. “So...?”

“You get yourself a horse?”

“Ah. Yes. A...uh...mahogany bay Tenoosy-Walker, I believe is what the stablehand called him.”

Arthur chuckled, twisted his own shot between his fingers briefly before slugging it back. “_Tennessee_ Walker.  And what are  you  gonna call him? Got a name?” 

“Roach,” Geralt replied simply, before he lifted the small glass and quickly drank it. He shuddered and made a sour face at the taste of the whiskey. “ _ Gods _ ...tastes just like Drowner piss...” 

Arthur blinked, his brows drawing down as he slid his empty glass back across the bar. “_Roach_?  What the hell kinda name is that?” For now he was set on ignoring whatever a Drowner was and why Geralt would ever know what its piss tasted like.

Geralt shrugged. “It’s what I name all my horses.” 

Arthur shook his head, a wheezy little scoff escaping him. “_Right_...”  He fell silent, stared intensely at the grimy bar top for a minute, the brim of his hat hiding some of his features. “You know...you seem awfully laid back for a fella in your particular situation.” 

Geralt was in the middle of trying to catch the barkeep’s attention when Arthur finally spoke again. He glanced over, a sort of smug expression crossing his features. “Not the first time this sort of thing’s happened to me, Arthur. I always figure it out eventually.” 

Arthur straightened up from where he’d been leaning on his elbows on top of the bar. “So...you ain’t gonna need anymore help after this, then?” 

“Thanks,” Geralt muttered to the barkeep as he refilled the glasses once more. He dropped one of his gold coins onto the bar and looked over at Arthur in that cold, assessing way that unnerved the outlaw rather greatly. “...I suppose not.” 

Arthur nodded. “Alright then.” He downed his last shot and smacked the little glass down on the bar. 

“Say...what the hell kinda coin is this, fella? This don’t look like no American money I ever seen.” 

Geralt’s eyes flicked ahead to see the barkeep looking at him in a curious and sort of worried way. “Gold. Crowns. It’s good, right? I just bought a mount with it, no problem.”

The bartender blinked, looked down at the coin pinched between his fingers. He looked back up at the white-haired stranger incredulously. “Ain’t never heard of no ‘crowns’...you just come across from England or somethin’, friend? Never seen nobody carryin’ swords on his back, neither.”

Geralt looked thoughtful for only a moment before he graced the bartender with a hint of a smile. “England. Yes. That’s right.” 

Arthur watched this interaction with some trepidation; he could see the bartender’s eyes darting back and forth toward some of the bar patrons, no doubt all men who were friendly with him and who frequented the place. Arthur put a hand up in a placating gesture. “Look,  _friend._ He’s here wit’ a travelin’ circus act from Europe. He needed to pick up a new horse for the troupe and I thought I’d just take ‘im out for a drink, show him some of our ‘American hospitality’. Ain’t no need for any goddamn suspicion. That there’s money, and he’s payin’ you with it, right? I think that’s all you need to be concerned with.”

The barkeep swiveled his gaze to Arthur and then back to Geralt. “I see. Well, we’re decent, God-fearin’ people here in Valentine, sir. Ain’t used to seein’ folk of your...kind.” His eyes flicked to Arthur again. “And don’t you think I’ve forgotten what you and your  friends  did to poor Tommy. I don’t know what kind of troupe or freak-show you two come out of, but I’d watch your step in these parts. We look after our own.  _Friend_.”

Arthur’s mouth was curling into a nasty sneer. He’d had just about enough of Valentine and all the  _decent, God-fearing folk_ that lived there. His attention was caught when Geralt turned around suddenly at a hand on his shoulder. 

“Ain’t nobody gonna turn our saloon into no freak-show, you hear me-“

Geralt’s mouth thinned into a hard line, and suddenly his hand went up. He made an odd little motion with a few of his fingers as he waved his hand through the empty air between himself and the stranger, and Arthur watched as the man’s expression fell completely slack. “I’m not turning anything into a freak-show. My friend and I were just about to leave. _Peaceably_. That alright with you?”

The stranger blinked and shook out his head a bit, looking a little lost. “Uh...yeah. Yeah, that’s alright. S-sorry?” 

Geralt nodded and brushed past the stranger without any further fuss. “Apology accepted.” 

Arthur’s jaw fell open. Before he could even think about it, he’d taken a step towards the man. He had already started preparing for a fight, so he figured it was worth trying the little experiment that had dawned on him in the last few seconds. “You know friend, I seem to recall hearin’ you say you was gonna buy them drinks for us, and I don’t think you ever did.” 

The man blinked again, slowly, as he raised his empty gaze to Arthur; the outlaw had a good five or six inches on him. “I-I did? Sorry...” He reached down to rummage in his pockets, coming up with a handful of bills a few moments later. He held out his hand. 

Arthur smiled amiably and took the man’s money. “Why, thank you kindly. No hard feelings, partner.” He tipped his hat and deposited the cash into his own pocket, clapping the man on the shoulder before shooting a shit-eating smirk back at the bartender and following Geralt towards the doors. 

The fact that Geralt seemed to be able to hypnotize people was perhaps the most worrying thing about the man, Arthur thought as he pushed his way out through the double doors, but he couldn’t help thinking of the possibilities that might open up to them if he convinced the Witcher to join up with Dutch’s gang. Robbing folk would be a walk in the park with a man like that around; Dutch would probably be beside himself. 

Geralt was already mounting up when Arthur exited the saloon and made his way down the stairs to the street. They made eye contact and Arthur almost did a double take at the cold stare he received. He came up beside Enid, ran a hand down the mare’s neck as he took up her reins. “What?”

“Did you take that man’s money?”

Arthur scoffed. “Well, yeah. What’d you do to him, anyway?” 

Geralt rolled his eyes, readjusting himself in Roach’s saddle. “Just a bit of magic to keep things from getting out of hand. I should’ve known you were nothing but a common bandit...”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “I’ll split the goddamn money wit’ you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Geralt’s cat-like eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “That’s not what I’m worried about. People think badly enough of my kind, I don’t need to go around robbing folk to make it any worse. I earn my coin honestly.”

Arthur shrugged before hooking his foot into a stirrup and hauling himself up into Enid’s saddle. “Fine then. If you’re good, then I believe I’ll be on my way.” 

“Fine.” Geralt said nothing more as he clicked his teeth and guided Roach away from the post. He slowed the stallion, just sitting there for a moment before casting one last glance over his shoulder. “Oh. A word of advice. Whatever ammunition you use in that tiny ballista of yours, I’d suggest coating some of it with silver. If you run into any more creatures like those Nekkers, it’s one of the only things that will kill them. It may just save your life.” 


	3. Buck Up, Cowboy [pt. I]

There was a powerful storm brewing over the state of Lemoyne. Arthur had hoped he could push it, hoped he could get back to their new camp at Clemens Point before the sky broke open. He should have known better; riding back from Van Horn as he was, it was already a long trip and there was no way his conscience would sit right if he tried to ride Enid on through the onslaught. It broke just as he was riding west across the bridge from Bluewater Marsh.

He cursed and gnashed his teeth as huge, fat raindrops started pummeling them from the angry sky. He knew the area somewhat, knew there was an old abandoned town not too far ahead. Though the place gave him the creeps, he pushed on until he spied the faded and weather-beaten wooden sign that still read ‘Pleasance’.

He broke the lock off the door of the old church in the center of town and shouldered his way inside. Enid squeezed her way in right behind him, nickering and shaking her head to try and rid herself of some of the heavy wetness that had soaked them both.

Arthur sighed as he shed his coat and his hat, glancing over at the thoroughbred in the semi-darkness. “I know, I know. M’sorry, girl. I hate this goddamn weather just as much as you do.”

Enid looked at him with her large, intelligent eyes and snorted, swishing her tail. He couldn’t help but chuckle. He moved over to her and opened up one of the saddlebags. Stashed inside he had a lantern wrapped in an old shirt to help prevent it from leaking out any kerosene. He hauled the thing out and opened the little latch on the side and fumbled in his pockets for his matchbook, hoping it wasn’t as soaked as the rest of him.

When he finally managed to get the lantern lit, he held it up and took stock of the little church. A heavy, cloying odor of dirt and decay and mold hung about the air. There were some pews still left, but some of them had been tipped over onto the floor as if something urgent had scared off its old congregation - or turned them into a panicked mob. Arthur remembered very well seeing the words ‘STAY OUT’ and ‘PLAGUE’ hastily scrawled in paint on the door of the barn that sat near the edge of the town.

He grimaced. He did not want to make camp in this place. The locals never said much about it. It was like a stain on the landscape between Rhodes and the swamps of Bayou Nwa. He shivered suddenly, for no reason.

A scurrying sound coming from the corner made him whip around, squinting in the low light from the lantern as it swung in his hand. His other instinctively went for the butt of his gun even though his rational brain knew it was nothing more than some small rodent, perhaps a possum or a raccoon taking shelter from the deluge outside.

He saw nothing. He sucked in a big breath as his gaze wandered toward the vaulted ceiling, refocusing on the steady beats of rain hitting the old wooden roof. It was fine. He would strip off his gun belt and some of his clothes and lay them over a pew to dry, eat some dinner from whatever he had in his satchel, and put out his bedroll to try and catch up on a few hours of sleep until the storm let up.

He had to leave the door open so that Enid could go in and out as she pleased. He was hoping she knew better than to drop a steaming load on a church floor, but he’d never had to test it until now. He got himself comfortable atop his bedroll, leaned back against one of the old pews, set the lamp down beside him and took out his journal.

When Arthur snapped awake hours later, the first thing he noticed was that the lantern had gone out and it was pitch black. The second thing he noticed was that the temperature in the old church had dropped significantly. The third thing he noticed was the constant scritch-scratch-scritch of tiny little feet with tiny little claws all around him; at first, he’d thought it was still raining. But this sound was not rain.

A profound worry started settling over him then. With a shaky hand, he retrieved another match to re-light the lantern. Even in the dimmest glow of the little flame it looked like the floor around him was…moving. He almost dropped the match before he could finish getting the lantern lit. What he saw in the light was indescribable.

The floor of the old church was covered in thousands of rats. One of them scrambled across his foot and he grunted, kicking it away and clawing his way to his feet. He looked around wildly, then spun and hopped up onto the pew he’d been leaned up against. _“Jesus_, God Almighty! _What the fuck is this?!”_

Enid was gone. He clung to the solid weight of the wooden pew and reached down to pluck his boots out of the swarm. He realized he’d dropped the lantern at some point. He took just enough time to jam his feet back into his boots, already resigned to leaving his clothes and his bedroll behind, and then hopped down from his perch and sort of danced and jumped in a macabre way toward the door of the church.

Just as he was about to fling himself through the opening, the door slammed shut right in his face with a solid thud. He crashed into it, slamming his fists into the splintered wood. _“No!_ No…no, no, no…” Arthur was starting to panic. He felt a sheen of sweat starting on his forehead even though it felt like an icebox in that church. He turned around, flattened his palms against the door, backed right up against it.

He thought he could hear someone else in the church with him. It almost sounded like weeping and it almost sounded like screaming and it almost sounded like choking sobs, and it also sounded like none of these things all at the same time. The sounds wavered in and out of existence all around him while the rats ran over his feet.

“Jesus. Ohhh, Jesus. I don’t wanna die. Thought I’d die in a goddamn shootout. Thought it’d be _quick_.” His words came in a frightened jumble. He clasped his hands in front of his chest and raised his eyes to the dark ceiling. “I know I ain’t never talked to you and I might be a villain and a reprobate and a bastard, but-“

A breath of swamp-warm air swept across his face and it smelled exactly as rotten as the deepest darkest depths of the bayou. Arthur choked on his words and slowly lowered his trembling hands. He did not want to lower his gaze. He did not want to see what had breathed. He did not want to see. But he looked, and he saw.

A form was hovering just beside him. _Hovering_. The form of a woman. Her feet did not touch the ground. Her skin seemed to slough off her bones, and the tattered and ethereal remains of her dress seemed to float around her. She was skeletal, and the parts of her still covered in flesh were riddled with lesions and boils. Skeletal fingers reached out towards him.

Arthur felt himself gasping for a breath. His heart felt like it was going to explode in his chest. He blindly reached behind and fumbled with the handle of the door, jiggled it back and forth uselessly. Just as he felt the barest caress of bony fingers against the stubble on his cheek and heard the monstrous woman let out a gentle sigh, he finally felt the latch give and suddenly the door flew open and he was tumbling onto his ass in the grass outside the church.

He scrambled to his feet, clothed only in his boots and union suit, tripped over something slimy in the grass, went to one knee and then half-crawled until he could use his own momentum to lurch back into a run. He spotted Enid way across the road, well away from the little town once known as Pleasance. He thought he could see her eyes, big and shining with fear in the moonlight as she whinnied and reared.

Arthur looked back over his shoulder only once. The door of the church was shut. He ran all the way to Enid, took up her reins, calmed her with soothing words that he didn’t even know he was capable of at that particular moment. And then he broke into a panic again and scrambled up into the saddle and urged her into a gallop and did not stop until he was back at Clemens Point.

When he woke up in his own cot quite late the next morning, he felt even more drained than if he simply hadn’t slept at all. He’d had feverish nightmares of the rats; that they were swarming him, eating him alive, burrowing into his skin. And upon waking, he had no idea if what had happened to him had even been real at all. He’d been scared enough to leave everything behind; his clothes, his guns, his goddamn _hat_. And still, he couldn’t help wondering if he was finally going crazy.

Arthur kicked his blanket off and sat up, groaned long and low and wiped his scruffy face with his hands. He dressed himself from the clothes he kept in the trunk at the foot of his bed. He wandered over to the cook fire to pour himself a cup of coffee, barely acknowledged anyone else when they said good morning or poked fun at him for sleeping in so late.

Hosea came up and told him quite bluntly that he looked like a sack of shit and he just grunted out a humorless chuckle and made up some excuse about being Dutch’s goddamn workhorse. He drained the last of his cup before refilling it for the third time.

They both looked over as Reverend Swanson approached them, wobbling on unsteady legs and scratching one of his forearms anxiously. “Pardon me, gentlemen. Perhaps…have either of you seen my bible? I seem to have, uh…misplaced it. Again.”

Hosea narrowed his eyes at the washed-up holy man. Arthur rolled his and shook his head. “Ain’t seen your goddamn bible, Reverend, and if I was you, I’d count myself lucky for havin’ lost it,” he muttered as he shouldered his way between the two men and away from the cook fire.

The coffee wasn’t helping. Who’d have thunk caffeine simply was not enough to quell an overwhelming sense of existential dread. Arthur wandered off toward the chicken coop at the edge of camp, lit a cigarette and picked at his teeth with a fingernail. How the hell was he going to get his things back from inside that church? He didn’t give a damn about the rest of it, sure enough, but he wanted his father’s hat back. That hat was the one thing he could not replace.

Something glinting gold in the sunlight drew his attention down towards the coop. The hens had a few nests inside it where they roosted and laid their eggs. Arthur’s brows drew down. He took a knee, swiveled the cigarette off to the side of his mouth so the smoke wasn’t going right up into his eyes. He reached inside the coop with his free hand to grab a gold pocket watch that had been placed very neatly in the center of one of the nests.

“What the…?” He sat back on his heels and turned the watch over in his hand. It was Dutch’s. How the hell had it gotten all the way over here?

Arthur sighed and got to his feet. He returned Dutch’s watch to him, told their leader to keep an eye on Sean; it seemed like the sort of practical joke the dumb Irish bastard would think up. He danced nimbly around a request to go gather information on some family or other, claimed he already had another lead to check on in Rhodes. Truth was, Arthur wanted a strong drink and a scalding bath to wash the feel of those goddamn rats’ little claws off his skin. He was still plagued with a vague crawling sensation all over his body.

He dropped his cup into the wash bin beside Pearson’s chuck wagon and made for where he’d left Enid with the other horses the night before. His simple rituals didn’t change much; he brushed out her coat and her mane and took the time to hand-feed her a few oatcakes before re-saddling her and getting ready to ride.

Rhodes was surprisingly quiet. It didn’t occur to him until he was riding past the sheriff’s office that his little tin Deputy star was still pinned to the shirt he’d left back in Pleasance. He silently chided himself for being a fool and a coward. How could any of that have been real?

Once inside the Parlour House he stopped in his tracks when he recognized a man seated in one of the booths to the side of the large dining room. Geralt, the man who’d fallen out of a hole in the sky out by the Dakota River. That had been a few weeks ago. He’d changed his clothes; he wore a simple white open-collar shirt with dark brown pants tucked into a pair of boots and leather half-chaps. No swords adorned his back. He must have been making an effort to blend in. He seemed to be deep in conversation with another man sitting across from him.

Arthur walked pointedly past the booth toward the bar without saying a word. He payed the barkeep to have a bath drawn and went very purposefully up the stairs. He scrubbed himself almost raw, yet still felt filthy. Tainted.

When he came back downstairs, Geralt was leaning back against the bar on his elbows. They locked eyes and Geralt nodded down toward two shot glasses sitting beside him.

Arthur sighed and came up beside Geralt. He put his hand on one of the shots and hesitated only a moment before lifting it and slugging it back. He cringed only a little. “Thought I remembered you sayin’ you hated this stuff…”

Geralt turned and leaned over the bar next to him, reaching out to take the second shot. He glanced at Arthur and almost did a double take before shaking his head and pushing the little glass in his direction instead. “I do, but it’s better than the piss-water that passes for beer in this place. Besides, you look like you need it more than I do.”

Arthur erupted in a humorless, wheezy chuckle. “Sure…” He took the other shot and drank it quickly.

Geralt studied him for a few minutes before motioning to the barkeep for two more.

“What’re you doin’ here, anyway?”

“Picking up leads. About any more portals that may have opened up, or about the young woman I’m searching for. And, apparently, picking up some work as well…” Geralt nodded his thanks to the bartender and slid a coin across the bar in exchange for the whiskey.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. He glanced over. “Like…monster-killin’ work? S’that what you was talkin’ to that fella about?”

Geralt looked over and nodded. “It was. Apparently there have been some strange things going on in this place since I happened to land here.” Geralt sighed and reached up to rub his short white beard. “Makes me think there are more portals than just the one I came through. I’m hoping, if I track down some of these leads, I may find one that’s still open.”

Arthur rummaged in his satchel for his pack of cigarettes. He plucked one out, but when he went to stick it between his lips, he realized his hand was shaking. He narrowed his eyes again, let out a breathy sigh and looked down at the bar top, smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead in an anxious way. “You, uh…you know anything about ghosts…?”


	4. Buck Up, Cowboy [pt. II]

“I want you to tell me everything that happened. Every detail.”

Arthur glanced over at the Witcher anxiously, a scoff escaping him like he was embarrassed to even consider it. He downed his third shot of whiskey, finally lit his cigarette. Then he relented and told Geralt everything that had happened to him in Pleasance.

Geralt watched him the entire time with those unnerving golden eyes of his, face etched into a frown like it was carved from stone. He did not interrupt.

“I ain’t ever seen nothin’ like that.” Arthur’s eyes darted back and forth. “I’ve seen some weird shit, but _that_...” He shook his head, took another drag, held it in for a moment and then let the smoke plume from his nostrils. He drummed his fingers against the bar top. “I, uh...you don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”

Geralt shook his head curtly. “No. I think you were in some very serious danger last night, Arthur. Have you felt ill at all? Feverish? Noticed any strange sores or rashes?”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “N-no...”

Geralt narrowed his eyes and pushed himself away from the bar. “Good. That’s very good. You’re lucky then.”

Arthur blinked, turned and trailed after the other man. “What? _Why? _What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“What you saw wasn’t exactly a ghost. Based on what you told me about the rats, I’m assuming it was a pesta,” Geralt said as he pulled open the saloon door and held out a hand to usher Arthur through.

_“A what?”_ Arthur replied as he passed.

“A pesta. Sometimes, people call them plague maidens.” Geralt followed Arthur out of the Parlour House and down the steps of the large porch. “They’re a...a sort of manifestation of residual energy that gets left behind after a terrible disease spreads through an area. Often in times of plague. Hence the name.”

Arthur came to a stop beside Enid and tossed the butt of his cigarette off into the road. He reached up to rub at the scruff under his chin, clearly agitated. “Listen, I don’t give a damn what the thing’s called. Why the hell was you askin’ me if I felt sick?”

Geralt crossed his arms, shifted on his feet. “Because...it isn’t really known if they just show up _after_ a pandemic has ravaged an area, or if they bring it with them. They’re...well, comparatively, they’re pretty rare.”

Arthur stared at the other man. “So what are you sayin’? That thing might’ve given me the goddamn _plague!?”_

“Well, if you’re feeling fine...then, probably not?” Geralt shrugged his shoulders ambivalently.

Arthur’s jaw worked. It was infuriating how mild-mannered Geralt was being about the whole situation. “Can you get rid of the goddamn thing, or not,” he gritted out through his teeth.

“I should be able to take care of it. But, one thing you should know; Witchers don’t work for free.”

Arthur took up the horse’s reins in one hand and turned away. He couldn’t help chuckling humorlessly. He tilted his head back, ran his free hand down over his face like he could wipe away the sick farce his life had suddenly become._ “Right. _‘Course. Well, you already know I ain’t nothin’ but a _common bandit._ You want money for your trouble, I’m gonna have to steal it.” Arthur lowered his gaze, narrowed it at Geralt pointedly. “‘Less you wanna do whatever hoodoo you did on that fella back in Valentine and hypnotize some fool into givin’ us his money.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. He sighed. “No. But...that weapon you have, I’ve seen a lot of men carrying them around. They’re powerful, aren’t they? Maybe we could do a trade of sorts. Get me one, show me how to use it, and I’ll kill that specter for you.”

Arthur blinked. “You want me to show you how to use a gun?”

“Yes,” Geralt waved a hand to indicate that Arthur should follow as he started to walk toward the corner of the Parlour House. “That’s fair, isn’t it?”

Arthur led Enid along after him. They rounded the corner and Roach came into view, tethered at one of the hitching posts on the long side of the building. Finally, he heaved out a relenting sigh. “I suppose so, sure.”

“Good.” Geralt turned as he came up on the horse, extending a hand out to Arthur.

The outlaw quirked his mouth, eyed the other man’s hand for a moment, then reached out to shake it.

“Let’s go kill a monster,” Geralt said with a nod of his head.

The men mounted up and followed the dusty road north through Rhodes and out into the country.

Arthur became contemplative while they rode. He had many questions. He was still worrying if he might have been tainted with some sickness. He couldn’t tell anymore if he was sweating so much because he was feverish, or because it was hotter than hell out there in Lemoyne. He needed distraction before he worried himself crazy.

He guided them to the left as they came up on an intersection, following the Kamassa north through forest covered in hanging spanish moss. “So, uh...that thing you come out of...what’s it called again?”

“A portal. It’s a sort of...magical conduit, I suppose. Between places. And between worlds, if the magic’s strong enough.”

“And you think there might be more of ‘em? Where the hell’d they come from?”

Geralt shrugged. “I don’t know who - or what - made them. To be honest, when the conditions are just right, sometimes they naturally appear on their own. But I have to assume there are more if things like this pesta are showing up. The way you act, things like that aren’t common here. And the man I was speaking with earlier...I overheard him telling someone else in the inn about a hut he’d stumbled upon somewhere up north. Full of bones and strange talismans. Complete with a bubbling cauldron.”

Arthur looked over at him from the space between their horses. A cauldron. He knew the place. Up in Ambarino, it was. He’d been up there scouting a bounty a few months back. He’d dismissed the event as a result of dehydration and lack of sleep, but he remembered something odd happening to him up there. “Yeah, I know the place.”

It was Geralt’s turn to look over, his brows going up in mild surprise. “You do?”

Arthur sighed and nodded. “Yes.”

“The man I spoke with said he’d lost a friend in the area. Said when he went out to look, he saw the friend’s corpse outside the hut, half-buried. He didn’t stick around to see who, or what, it was that killed him.”

Arthur gave Geralt a sidelong glance, had a feeling he knew where this was heading. “Fella offer to pay you if you find out what happened?”

Geralt nodded. “Since you know the place...show me the way up there and I’ll split the reward with you.”

Arthur sighed. “Let’s just...see how we get on with this pasta first.”

“Pesta.”

“Whatever.”

They approached the outskirts of Pleasance near the end of the afternoon. Geralt had them cut off the road and up into the woods to the west before they arrived, saying something about needing to make preparations.

Arthur brought Enid up through the underbrush behind him. It was much darker there in the woods; the trees cast long shadows over them as they picked their way through.

“Whoa,” Geralt brought Roach to a stop at the edge of a small break in the trees. He dismounted and began untying one of his swords from where it was stowed on the stallion’s saddle.

Arthur glanced behind, back toward the road. Back toward Pleasance. Even in the murky heat, a shiver ran up through him. “What, uh...what’re you doin’ exactly?”

“I need to prepare some things. And then I’ll need to meditate for a bit. Get a fire started, would you?” Geralt leaned the sword against a tree and then began unclipping Roach’s saddlebag.

Arthur quirked an eyebrow. “O-kay...” He cleared his throat, brushed past Geralt and went off into the trees to gather up as much dry brush and kindling as he could carry. He tried to keep his ears peeled for any odd noises, glanced up from his work repeatedly to make sure there were no ghostly apparitions about. Or rats, for that matter.

When he got back to the little clearing, Geralt was adorned in the armor he’d been wearing when he’d first fell from the portal, on his knees on the ground, pulling a few small jars and tins from the saddlebag and setting them down in an orderly line. His sword lay in the brush beside him.

“What’s all that then,” Arthur asked as he crouched, dropping the kindling he’d found in favor of digging up some stones to ring the fire with.

“Just another part of the job,” Geralt replied. “I’ve been doing a bit of botany since I’ve been here. Trying to find plants and herbs with similar properties to the ingredients I normally use.”

Arthur pressed a rock into the soggy earth, glancing up at the Witcher. “Ingredients for what?”

“Potions. Oils for my blades. Bombs.” Geralt sighed as he reached down to unbuckle a small leather bag from his belt. “Only thing is, the magical and more rare components I need are sorely lacking, for obvious reasons. I need to be very judicious with how I use the things I do have. Thankfully, I don’t need much to make a little specter oil.”

Arthur listened with furrowed brows as he placed the last few stones on the ground to complete the ring. Every answer he got from the man only left him with more questions. “Yeah...listen. I’m havin’ a hard time with all this ‘magic’ stuff,” he said as he grabbed a handful of brush and began piling it inside the circle of rocks. “Them things I seen you do, they’re impressive...but Christ, I don’t know.” He shook his head, reached back to gather up some of the bigger branches. “Reckon I don’t know what to make of it, I guess.”

“You don’t have to ‘make’ anything of it. It just is,” Geralt replied without looking up. He had retrieved some white orchid petals from one of his little tins and was currently mashing them into a small bowl with a pestle. “There _is_ magic in this world, but it’s very old, and it’s dwindling. Based on that fact alone, I’m not surprised you find it strange.”

Arthur searched his pockets for his matchbook, glanced up at the other man again. “So this shit’s just...all over the place where you come from? Everybody’s got these...magic powers or the like?”

Geralt huffed out a scoff and shook his head as he scooped some bear fat out of one of his jars and smeared it into the bowl to mix it up with the flower petals. “Not everyone, no, thank the Gods. No, it’s a bit more complicated than that. Some people are born with an inherent ability to harness and manipulate it, but it’s...tricky. It takes decades of training to master. Without that, most mages end up driven completely insane by their own unchecked power.”

Arthur quirked an eyebrow down where he was huddled in front of the pile of kindling. A few of the leaves near the bottom caught the flame from his match, and then a few more. “Well, no offense, but that sounds like shit.”

Geralt shrugged as he set the bowl and pestle on the ground in favor of retrieving a scrap of cloth from Roach’s saddlebag. “Many would say the chance to wield such astonishing power is worth the risk. Hell, the things I’ve seen Yen do...” He trailed off as he leaned down to retrieve his sword from its scabbard. It slid out with a metallic whisper, and then he laid it flat across his thighs.

Arthur blew a few measured puffs of air at the base of the brush pile to help the flames catch. Smoke plumed up into the air between the two men. “Who?”

“Oh, hm...” Geralt shook his head, dabbed the cloth down into the bowl. “Just a...good friend of mine. A very powerful sorceress.” He ran the cloth down the length of the blade almost reverentially.

Arthur sighed and sat back on his heels. He looked around again. Golden afternoon sunlight filtered into the little grove where they sat, but evening was fast approaching. He retrieved a canteen from his satchel and drank some of the water from it.

“So, these...guns. How do they work?” Geralt glanced up as he flipped the blade over so that he could oil the other side. “They fire some kind of projectile, like a crossbow fires a bolt? I gathered that much the day you tried to shoot me with it.”

Arthur spared him a withering gaze. “Yeah,” he drawled out before clearing his throat. “Uh, sorry about that. Whole thing was a bit _perturbing_, watchin’ a fella drop ass over end out a hole in the goddamn sky.”

Geralt chuckled softly, still meticulously wiping his blade. “No hard feelings, I suppose. As you saw, I certainly know enough magic that I can protect myself.”

Arthur snorted and stuffed his canteen back into his satchel. “You got it right though, guns are powerful. You get shot wit’ one, more’n likely you’ll be stone dead soon after.”

“What’s the ammunition?”

“Gun powder, cased in lead and copper, usually. They’re called bullets. Slugs, if you’re usin’ a shotgun,” Arthur replied as he grabbed another handful of branches to add into the fire. “It’s a bit complicated to explain without havin’ one to show you with. And, uh...well, I left my revolver in that damn church.”

“Hm.” Geralt placed the oily cloth into the bowl and then slid the sword back into its scabbard. “No time right now, anyway. It’ll be dark soon, and I still need to meditate. Best to prepare both the weapon and the mind, as Vesemir would say...”

Arthur quirked an eyebrow again and simply shook his head. “We gotta fight this thing in the dark?”

Geralt eyed him for a moment. “_You_ won’t be doing any fighting. Let me handle it,” he said as he neatly plucked up his jars and stuffed them back into the saddlebag.

“Now, just a minute, mister. If this thing _can_ be killed, then I want a hand in it. I don’t take kindly to nothin’ tryin’ to kill me, or poison me, or sic ten thousand goddamn rats on me, even if it _is_ some kinda..._residual energy_, or whatever nonsense you said.”

Geralt just kept staring at him, hard, from under his lashes. His mouth curled down in a tight grimace. “You might be a killer, and you might think you’re even good at it, but you have _no_ concept of what it is you’re talking about. Now _shut up_ for a bit, would you?”

Arthur blinked. He opened his mouth to rebut with something acerbic, but the look Geralt was giving him and the harsh tone he’d used signified to Arthur that maybe, just maybe, it was in his best interest to listen.

He exhaled a sharp huff of breath and pushed himself to his feet, waving a hand dismissively as he turned to walk over and give the horses some attention; at least they weren’t so quarrelsome.

Geralt’s cat-like eyes followed him for a few moments before flicking down to focus on the flames that licked up into the air from the small campfire. He exhaled a deep breath and centered himself, flattened his palms on top of his thighs and let his eyelids flutter shut.

.

.

“Hey.”

“Hello?”

“Hellloo?”

Arthur tossed away the butt of the cigarette he’d been smoking and waved a hand in front of the Witcher’s face to no avail. The man had been silent and motionless for almost two hours. After his second game of solitaire, it had grown too dark for Arthur to keep playing by the meager light of the small fire. And he didn’t want to admit it, but being so close to that old ghost town now that it was dark was doing a number on his already diminished sense of well-being.

_“I ain’t botherin’ you, am I?”_ Arthur asked sharply as he grabbed Geralt’s shoulder and shook him. He sucked in a sharp breath and spun around at the sound of a branch snapping somewhere off behind him. He stood frozen, scanning the pitch-black shadows between the trees.

After a solid minute of relative silence he grimaced and turned back around to try and wake the Witcher up again. Golden eyes glowed up at him in the darkness and he gasped, his hand flying away from the man’s shoulder as he faltered back a step. _“Jesus!”_

Geralt huffed out a small chuckle as he grabbed up his sword and Roach’s saddlebag and got to his feet. “I’ve been told the eyes take some getting used to.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet...” Arthur eyed the man warily. He took a step to the side to stamp out the dwindling fire with his boot.

Geralt made his way over to Roach to reattach the stallion’s saddlebag. “Ready?”

Arthur sighed, spread the ashes around just a bit more before he was satisfied. “I guess,” he replied as he turned and walked over to where Enid stood cropping the leaves off a low bush.

“Just show me where this church is. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Mmhm...” Arthur pulled himself up onto Enid’s saddle while Geralt mounted up and then he turned her back towards the road, letting her pick her own way down through the trees in the darkness.

He brought them to a stop right at the intersection adjacent to Pleasance. The moon was up again, and it seemed to cast an otherworldly glow across the silent, run-down old village.

Geralt proceeded a bit further with Roach before dismounting on the other side of the road. He just stood there for a moment, head bowed, the horse’s reins still clutched loosely in one hand.

Arthur looked around, brows furrowing. He was already sweating like a pig, but he didn’t like the way it was starting to feel cold across the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. He cleared his throat a little awkwardly.

Geralt glanced up. “Medallion’s humming. There’s definitely something here.”

Arthur blinked. He’d noticed the snarling wolf’s-head medallion adorning a chain around the man’s neck - truth be told, it was hard to miss - but he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard Geralt correctly. “What?”

“Shh,” Geralt shushed him and put a gloved finger to his lips. He turned suddenly and walked with purpose back towards the outlaw, rummaging inside that little leather bag that hung from his belt.

Arthur had dismounted by now, stood beside Enid with one palm flat against the mare’s neck, like just at that moment he needed some kind of connection to another living thing; any kind of connection. He watched as Geralt stopped in front of him and extended his hand, holding something out. “What’s that?”

“A moondust bomb,” Geralt replied in something just above a whisper. “I want you to stay out here, away from that church. But if anything happens, light it up and use it. It’ll slow the wraith down, force it into corporeal form. Hopefully it will give you enough time to get away from here.”

Arthur stared down at the tightly-sewn, hardened leather pouch Geralt pushed into his hand. A small fuse protruded from one of the seams. He blinked, looked back up at the other man. “What you mean, _if anything happens?_ I thought you said you could deal with it?”

“I think you know as well as I do how strange these circumstances are. You may be some kind of bandit, but you helped me when I first got here when you were under no obligation to. I don’t forget that. The least I can do is offer you a means of getting out of here alive.”

With that, Geralt turned away from him. He’d already strapped the sword back over his shoulder. The silver pommel shaped like a wolf’s head glinted in the light of the moon as he made his way back across the road and into the town.

Arthur clutched the little bomb in his fist, watched as Geralt made his way toward the derelict little church. He hadn’t wanted to admit that he didn’t want to be left alone. What if the thing wasn’t even in there anymore? What if it had made its way outside? He whipped his head around to check behind and to either side, let out an unsteady breath. So much for Dutch van der Linde’s fearless lieutenant; just at that moment, he certainly felt more like a simpering, scared little boy.

He retrieved his shotgun from the scabbard on Enid’s saddle and slung it over his shoulder. He didn’t know what use it might be, but better to have it, he supposed. He looked back over at the church. Geralt was gone, presumably inside. He swallowed down a lump in his throat and slowly walked across the road.

Arthur stood there at the edge of the town for some time, still clutching that little explosive, waiting with almost bated breath to see what would happen. He felt his eyes straining in the darkness, finally bowed his head and reached up to rub at them with one hand. It felt like he’d been waiting an hour.

He was starting to get nervous. The urge to run was strong, but the whole point of this venture had been to get his goddamn things back from that church; and he may have been a ruthless outlaw, but Arthur Morgan was not heartless, no matter how much he blathered about being just that. He had recruited Geralt’s help in the matter and he could not abandon the man to whatever gruesome fate might be waiting to befall him.

Sucking in a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, Arthur began making his way into the town. He paused by the broken wooden sign, straining his ears to try and hear anything of what might have been going on in there.

A sudden, violent shriek made him jump, caused a strangled cry to escape his throat. Before he could even catch his breath, a loud crash emanated from the church and suddenly Geralt was flying out through one of the old broken windows. He landed hard on his shoulder on the ground, tried to turn it into a roll to propel himself back to his feet, but all he accomplished was sending himself ass over teakettle.

A violent, sickly green glow emanated from the other side of the smashed out window before it blinked out. Just as suddenly, it reappeared outside the church, dangerously close to where Geralt had landed in the grass. The shape of the ghostly woman materialized out of the glow, and suddenly she was sweeping down towards Geralt with deadly intent.

That sighing, screaming, weeping sound seemed to ring in Arthur’s ears, and he could only imagine how much worse it was for Geralt, in the midst of trying to scramble to his feet to escape the wraith’s clutches. Arthur made a split-second decision, fumbled in his pocket for his matches and ran a few steps forward. _“Hey!_ You ugly piece of shit! Hey! Over here!”

The wraith’s gaze snapped up. She hovered there for a second, clawed, bony hands extended. Realization seemed to wash over the creature, and that wailing sound intensified.

Arthur cursed, fumbled the matchbook from his pocket and plucked one off with trembling fingers. He glanced up to see the thing gliding through the air towards him.

“Arthur, _no!_ I told you to stay back, you fool!”

He glanced at Geralt quickly before refocusing his gaze on the match, tried to strike it off the little strip on the back of the book once to no avail. The thing screamed and disappeared in another puff of ghastly green radiance. Arthur sucked in a terrified breath, tried once more to light the match.

He looked up once again to see the specter materializing only a few feet away, bony claws outstretched, a sudden buzzing sound accompanying her reappearance as if thousands of flies had swarmed at her sides like a cavalry being called in. Arthur faltered, took a step back, almost tripped over his own feet.

Geralt was back on his feet now, and he cursed to himself as he saw what was happening; obvious, the wraith was drawn to the man who’d previously escaped her clutches. It was invested in destroying him, now that it had already marked him for death. He quickly painted a sign in the air with fingers outstretched, and suddenly a glowing circle of runes appeared on the ground just beneath the pesta.

She screeched and stopped in her frenzied flight, bouncing back from the edge of the glowing circle like she’d suddenly flown smack into a brick wall. Her form filled in, no longer wispy and translucent. Geralt swiped his sword off the ground from where it had fallen from his hand.

Arthur finally got the match lit while all this was happening. He took a few more steps back, held the little flame to the tip of the bomb’s fuse, waited what felt like an eternity for the wick to catch and start burning. He tried to ignore the buzzing sound of the flies coming closer and closer, seemingly immune to Geralt’s magic circle.

Geralt glanced behind him at the sound of a few light thumps and angry squeaks. Rats were pouring out from the broken window he’d come through. He pointedly made the decision to ignore them, gripping his sword in both hands and running towards Arthur and the pesta instead. “Drop the damn bomb and _run!”_

Arthur stood frozen for a few more seconds, finally blinked and looked up to see the glowing magic circle dissolving down into the grass. The pesta shrieked again. Geralt’s words took a few prolonged seconds to sink in, but when they did Arthur obeyed. He tossed the tight leather pouch away towards the wraith, but he hadn’t accounted for how purposefully short the bomb’s fuse actually was. It exploded in a cloud of glowing dust almost as soon as it touched the ground.

Geralt lifted his free hand and painted another quick sign in the air as he ran, Aard’s powerful force knocking Arthur clear off his feet and backwards just in time to save him from the shrapnel the explosive sent flying in all directions. The pesta screeched, form flickering in and out of reality before becoming solid again.

Geralt pulled the sword back with both hands tightly on the grip and then swept his arms forward in a clean arc, cutting into the deadly apparition and hearing the satisfying, dusty crack of her bones breaking under the force of it. “What now, you piece of filth!?”

The specter crumpled, its screeching giving way to a long, drawn-out wail as Geralt plunged the silver sword deep into its chest, the point breaking through the other side and effectively impaling it.

He breathed hard as the thing stared at him uncomfortably close for a second with dead, furious eyes before it emitted one last shrill moan and burst in a sickly cloud of dust and ectoplasm. Geralt grunted and raised an arm to shield his face from the muck, let the sword dangle at his side as he tried to catch his breath.

He suddenly remembered Arthur. He swung the sword over his shoulder and into its sheath as he ran to the other man, still lying on his back on the ground. “Arthur! You alright?”

Arthur groaned, lifted his head briefly to look at the Witcher. “Just about,” he drawled out before letting his head sink back to the ground. He lifted a hand to rub at his forehead, that thing’s caterwauling still reverberating between his eardrums.

Geralt chuckled a little breathlessly and stooped to offer him a hand up. “Buck up, cowboy. We did it.”

Arthur furrowed his brows, squinting one eye open again to glance up at him before slowly reaching up to take Geralt’s hand and let the man help him to his feet. “Where the hell’d you learn that?”

Geralt shrugged and grunted slightly again as he pulled Arthur up. “Heard a stablehand saying it a week or so ago. Seemed fitting.”

Arthur huffed out an exasperated sort of chuckle and shook his head, looked over at the last spot the wraith had been before it dissolved under the onslaught of Geralt’s sword. “Jesus Christ...thought I’d seen just about all the goddamn violence the world had to offer. Seems I was sorely mistaken.”

Geralt suddenly moved away from him, went back to the spot where the specter had been and rummaged in his leather bag for an empty jar. “Mm. Didn’t you say you’d left some things in the church? Best go get them.”

Arthur blinked, nodding after a few seconds. “Right.” He brushed past where the Witcher knelt on the ground, scooping up ectoplasm from the grass to deposit into his little jar. Arthur felt a bit of bile rising in his throat and was glad to be walking away from the man’s mundane attitude towards the grisly business. He made for the door of the church to gather up his things, rats scurrying off in various directions at his approach, suddenly timid now that the specter’s influence had been lost to them.


	5. A Chat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thank you so much for reading! Sorry for a bit of a boring chapter - just needed to get some world-building in here. And I'm soft for watching their little friendship blossom :*)

They made camp beside Ringneck Creek that night. Arthur was wary of bringing Geralt around Clemens Point, didn’t know what the hell the others would think of this man from another world. But he didn’t necessarily want to tell the Witcher to hit the trail, either. In truth, he was coming to have some respect for the the man; his morbid and reluctant fascination was turning into something like a healthy curiosity. He certainly couldn’t help wondering at the coincidence of their meeting again.

His eyebrows went up as he watched Geralt squat down by the beginnings of another campfire. With a simple snap of his fingers, the dry brush and branches they’d collected caught flame. Within the space of ten seconds they had a healthy fire burning in front of them.

“Christ, you couldn’t have just done that earlier?” Arthur scoffed as he began to dress one of the two rabbits he’d caught for their dinner.

Geralt cocked an eyebrow and glanced over. “I was busy.

Arthur sneered. _“You was busy._ That’s rich. It didn’t take you nothin’ but a snap of your damn fingers,” he said as he extended a hand towards the happily crackling campfire, as if what Geralt had just done wasn’t obvious to the both of them.

The Witcher let a reluctant smirk curl up one corner of his mouth as he got to his feet. “I could see how out of sorts you were. Your heart was beating damn near out of your chest. I was just trying to keep you occupied.”

Arthur shook his head as he spitted the first carcass and placed it carefully over the two poles he’d set in the ground across either side of the fire. “Well, thanks, I guess...”

Geralt shrugged as he reached over his shoulder and removed his silver sword from its scabbard. “I suppose I should be thanking you, for trying to help. Even if it was very stupid of you.” He moved over to a log they’d dragged up, took a seat on it and laid the sword across his lap as he dug into that little leather pouch at his belt.

Arthur scoffed humorlessly. “For all my fumblin’, I must’ve done something right. I will admit...I was damn well out of my element. I never flinch in a gunfight, but that, back there? That is a whole new level of shit I ain’t ever seen before.” His eyes narrowed as he worked at spitting the second rabbit, jerking the carcass with a sloppy efficiency that still needed practice. “How do you do it?”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow. “Do what,” he asked as he brought a whetstone out from the pouch. He took the grip of the sword in one hand and angled the blade downwards so that the point hovered just above the ground.

“How do you fight things like that? Kill ‘em, even? And stay so goddamn calm about it?” Arthur glanced over at Geralt again as he set the second rabbit to cook over the fire, genuinely curious. “I mean, you ain’t worried at all about that thing makin’ you sick?”

A mirthless sort of smile graced Geralt’s narrow features as he ran the whetstone down the edge of his blade in one long, smooth stroke. “It’s a bit of a long story. my caste, Witchers, we aren’t just born this way. None of us chose to become what we are. Very few folk just wake up one day and decide they want to march off into the wilderness and try their hand at slaying chorts and strigas and all the other things that go bump in the night.”

Arthur tucked his fingers into the sleeve of his coat to protect them from the hot metal, reached out and turned the first spit to let the rabbit start cooking on its other side. “So...” He paused, puffed out an exasperated breath. “What the hell’s that mean?”

“It means I was taken to a fortress called Kaer Morhen as a very young boy. Put through...well, torture, to put it in no uncertain terms, force-fed highly toxic and volatile concoctions to spur on physical mutations like heightened senses and the ability to use simple forms of magic.” Geralt paused in the sharpening of his blade and leaned forward with an elbow on his knee. “I was one of the few that survived the Trial of the Grasses. Remarkably well, in fact. So well, that my predecessors decided to dose me with even more experimental mutagens. Hence the, uh...eerie lack of emotion and the ashen appearance. And an incredible immunity to illness.”

Arthur blinked. He cleared his throat, looked down and shoved a hand into his satchel to rummage for a cigarette. “I, uh...m’sorry,” he muttered, suddenly feeling very awkward. He wasn’t sure what kind of an explanation he’d expected, but that certainly hadn’t been it.

Geralt straightened back up, rolled his shoulders. “I’ve had a long time to make peace with it. Some of my ilk never do. I guess, in that respect, I’m still one of the lucky ones.” He went back to the work of sharpening his sword.

Arthur smoked in silence for a few minutes, watching the skin of the rabbits crackle and spit, dripping fat down into the fire. “I, uh...know a bit about what that’s like. Not havin’ a choice, I mean. All that other stuff, that’s...well, I can’t rightly comment on it. But I know well enough about havin’ your path chosen for you while you’re young...”

“Doesn’t seem that hard to make the choice _not_ to rob and kill innocent folk,” Geralt replied pointedly, turning the blade so that he could sharpen the opposite edge.

Arthur scoffed again, stuck the cigarette between his lips and leaned forward to turn the second rabbit. “Not if it’s what you was raised into. My daddy was a thief and a killer. And then I fell in with a couple other shysters, though we never did much killin’ to start off. We had...principles, back then, if you can believe it. Only robbed from banks and them that was too crooked to know what was good for ‘em.”

_“Mmhm,”_ Geralt replied with more than a hint of sarcasm.

Arthur narrowed his eyes and glanced over at him. “I ain’t lyin’. Time was, we used to _help_ people, sometimes. Take what we’d get from a good bank job and hand half of it away to poor folks, them as had even less than we did.”

The Witcher shook his head. “Sounds like Flynn Selms and his merry men,” he muttered to himself incredulously.

Arthur took one last drag from the cigarette before tossing it into the fire. “Think you mean Robin Hood ‘n his merry men. It weren’t ever as simple as all that, anyway. Time passed, we took in more ‘n more folks, Dutch and Hosea - the fellas that took me in, raised me - their dreams got bigger, and so did the jobs we was pullin’. With more mouths to feed, we had to look out for our own before we could think of givin’ away anything we pulled in.”

“In my experience, bandits don’t tend to do well looking after their own,” Geralt replied as he quirked an eyebrow. “More often than not, they turn on them. Greed always wins in the end.”

Arthur shook his head. “No, I know, but we ain’t like that. This gang I run with, they’re the closest thing to a family I got. We got young ones, just as angry and aimless as I was, lookin’ to make their own way in the world. Women that are all like sisters to me. All lookin’ to just...make things better for themselves, somehow.”

Geralt tilted his head. “Almost sounds more like a hansa.”

Arthur blinked. “A _what?”_ He gave the Witcher a quizzical look. An owl hooted somewhere not too far away and he flinched at the sudden sound. Apparently, his nerves were still a bit frayed at the edges.

“A hansa...a company,” Geralt amended, waving a hand in the air. “A group that’s bound together, travels together. I had one, once...”

It was Arthur’s turn to cock an eyebrow. “‘Scuse me for sayin’ so, but you don’t seem much like the type to keep company with a lot of other folks.”

Geralt finished sharpening the silver blade. A small huff of a chuckle escaped him as he slid it back into the scabbard over his shoulder in a smooth and well-practiced arc. “It was...necessary, at the time. The young woman I’m looking for...let’s just say this isn’t the first time we’ve been separated,” he said as he drew his steel sword from its place beside the silver.

Arthur tucked his fingers back into his sleeve, reached out to turn the first rabbit on its spit again. “Who is she?” He couldn’t help a hint of resignation entering his voice; he didn’t like the implication that maybe Geralt was her captor. Multiple escapes seemed to hint that it was so.

Geralt glanced up at him as he began the strokes of sharpening once again. “She’s...like a daughter to me. Not by blood, but, nevertheless...it’s important that I find her, make sure she’s safe.”

“She got a name?”

“Cirilla. Ciri.”

“Hm. So why’d she run off, then?”

Geralt’s gaze flicked up to him briefly with a flash of annoyance. “She didn’t r_un off._ She’s being hunted. Has been for most of her life. I’ve tried my best to protect her, but she’s...” He sighed. “She has a big heart. Doesn’t want others to be put in danger because of her.”

Arthur leaned forward on one knee to remove the first spit from over the fire, leaning it up against a log just so to let the rabbit cool. “So she _did_ run off.”

“...In a way, I suppose she did,” Geralt muttered reluctantly. “Which is why I need to find her. If she needs help, I’d like to be there.” He flipped the blade to sharpen the other edge, the same way he’d tended the first sword. It was obvious he’d done this thousands of times.

“So why do you think she’d be here? I mean ain’t this...world-jumpin’ or what have you a pretty rare thing?”

“I don’t even know that she is. But since _I _am...I might as well keep looking. And...it’s not a rare thing for her.”

“She some kind of, uh...what’s the term you used...a ‘sorceress?’”

“Not exactly.”

Arthur waited for further explanation, but Geralt remained reticent; he said nothing else on the subject. Arthur cleared his throat once more as he removed the second rabbit from over the fire and leaned the spit up beside the first.

Geralt finished up with the sword and replaced it in its scabbard, tucked the whetstone back into his leather pouch. He removed his studded gauntlets in preparation for eating dinner, tucking them in between his thigh and the log he sat on. He reached out and touched one of the spits to see if it had cooled down enough to pick up.

“So. This place up north. What’re you thinkin’? You think it’s some kinda monster?”

Geralt took the spit and speared it into the ground between his feet, glancing back at Arthur as he drew a hunting knife from a sheath at his belt. “Hard to tell without more information. I need to get up there, examine the place. I’ve got a few ideas, but it’s useless to make any conclusions so soon,” he replied as he sliced a hearty chunk of meat from the rabbit.

“You know,” Arthur said as he stood up and stretched, hearing his back pop, “I’ve run into some pretty gruesome things, myself. Found a few bodies; mutilated, chopped up, propped in...well, strange positions.” He sat down on the other log, grabbed up the second spit and propped it between his knees. “Turned out to be just some goddamn crazy fella. Nothin’ supernatural about it.”

Geralt shook his head briefly, lifted a hand to wipe some grease from the corner of his mouth with a thumb. “Not all monsters bear fangs and claws. Seems that’s a trait belonging to both our worlds...”

Arthur fell silent and paused with his own knife in his hand. He let Geralt’s sentiment tumble around his mind for a short time, working it over. “So you kill normal folk too, then? After the shit you been givin’ me,” he scoffed and shook his head, reached down to cut a slice of meat from his own rabbit.

Geralt hummed low around a mouthful. He swallowed, smirked, flashed a cat-like glare at Arthur. “I _do_ kill folk that are too stupid to get out of my way. There’s a difference between that and ‘normal’. A large one.”

Arthur grumbled something low, let the conversation die out while they both fell to eating. He produced a pint of whiskey from his satchel at one point, offered it out to the Witcher to help wash the meat down.

“So, you asked me about that hut. That mean you’ll take me up there?”

Arthur glanced over at Geralt from under the brim of his hat, tossing some of the rabbit’s bones into the fire. “Ah, shit,” he sighed. “I guess it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Flynn Selms is a reference to a book you can pick up in the Witcher 3 called The Merry Adventures of Muriel the Lovely Harlot, featuring a gang of bandits that prowl the woods and keep escaping the King's men!


	6. Grot's Well That Ends Well

"So...this place is somewhere right up in here," Arthur said as he placed a finger down upon the map they had spread out, pointing out a location just above the eastern ridge of the Grizzlies. "It'll take us a few days to get up there as it is, but there's just one problem. You're lookin' to get yourself a gun, there ain't no towns between here and there if we just ride straight north."

Geralt nodded as he peered down at the map with shrewd eyes. "So...we either backtrack to Rhodes...or cut northwest and stop in Valentine?"

Arthur angled his head, dragged his finger across the map and stopped, tapping upon a dot far to the northeast of where they currently were. _"Or,_ we cut northeast towards the Lannahechee and hit Annesburg. Truth be told, I'd rather not head back to Valentine just now."

Geralt cocked an eyebrow. "And why's that?"

Arthur gave him a sideways look as he took the map and folded it back up. "Had some trouble there about a week back. Ain't liked too kindly by the law just now," he muttered as he stuffed the map into his satchel and turned away, taking a knee on the ground to start wrapping up his bedroll.

Geralt shrugged, mostly ambivalent. "Fine, northeast it is. You, uh...need to return to your company before we go? Check in, let them know where you're going?"

Arthur stood up, tucking the bedroll under his arm. He'd thought about it, true, mostly for the purpose of stocking up on supplies, but something was preventing him from wanting to return to camp. For as much as he loved the gang, as much of the scope of his world they took up, something had changed. Ever since the fiasco that Dutch and Micah's ferry job in Blackwater had turned into, things had just been...different. Bleaker, for all of Dutch's bluster about keeping their heads low and just getting enough money to disappear. Arthur had a harder time really believing in it now, especially after that old bastard Leviticus Cornwall had shown up with a small militia to confront them personally in Valentine.

He scoffed as he made his way to Enid. "No, I ain't gotta_check in_. They ain't my goddamn nursemaids," he retorted as he strapped the bedroll tightly behind his saddle. "M'sure they'll get along just fine without me." _And give Marston a run at bein' the workhorse for a change._

Geralt shrugged again. He'd already packed up his things, so he made his way back to Roach and saddled up.

They headed east from Ringneck Creek to meet back up with the road, threading through patchy woods and over the railroad tracks until they came back upon Pleasance. It was quiet, and the two men rode on by without much commentary.

"Just so you know, this area we're headin' into, Roanoke...it ain't well known for bein' too hospitable."

Geralt looked over. It had been at least thirty minutes since either of them had spoken. They'd talked a bit about the mechanics of firearms for a while; Geralt had tried relating the physics he was hearing to those which powered a crossbow, but Arthur wasn't very good at explaining the hows of the thing and eventually the talk had just petered out. "Care to be a bit more specific?"

"Heard tell of some real nasty folk up there. Bunch of hillbilly kin-fuckers that all share about three workin' brain cells between 'em. Just thought I'd warn you before we get too mired up in them hills."

A scowl crossed Geralt's features as he centered his gaze back on the road ahead. "Charming." He made no signs of slowing, showed no desire to stop and turn back.

About midway through the day they were about to cross a narrow piece of the Kamassa River when they heard someone wailing and calling for help. They found a scrawny old man curled up near the trestles of a railroad bridge, seemingly half-mad and warbling out the name 'Butcher's Crick' over and over again.

Arthur wanted to leave the old coot, but Geralt would have none of it. They argued back and forth for a few minutes before Arthur cursed and waved a hand through the air dismissively. "Fine, do whatever you want. But I'm _tellin_' you, it ain't wise to linger in these parts!"

"You've got your guns, I've got my swords. I think we can manage to get this man home at the very least," Geralt said with a grunt as he put the man's arm around his shoulder and hoisted him up off the ground.

_"You_ can manage," Arthur muttered to himself sullenly as he mounted back up.

Geralt sneered as he bustled the old man up onto Roach's back, and they followed the road north while the fellow muttered to himself about voices and demons and devils. Arthur kept cutting quick, agitated glances back until they came upon the edge of a settlement. It was derelict, full of dirty pigs and chickens and desolate-looking folk that scowled or averted their gazes as the men rode through.

They were stopped in the middle of the little hamlet by another old man, even scrawnier, with a pockmarked face and a huge gray beard. He recognized the crazy one, Lemuel, and thanked them profusely for bringing him home.

"Yeah...listen, you got anything for us?" Arthur asked pointedly while Obediah, as he'd introduced himself, shouldered Lemuel in through the front door of a tiny cabin.

"Love, sir! Love and friendship in the darkness..."

Geralt and Arthur cut quick glances at each other before Obediah came back out from the cabin. Obviously intrigued, Geralt couldn't help pressing the man about what he meant. He listened intently as Obediah muttered about curses cast on them and demons taking many forms to torment the people of Butcher Creek.

Arthur crossed his arms and rolled his eyes, dug the toe of his boot into the dirt, watched a pig trot by between them, snuffling and snorting in its indifference to their conversation. Obediah thanked them again and cut the conversation short by telling them they'd best be on their way.

"You believe any of that horseshit?" Arthur asked as they crossed the rickety, narrow bridge that led west out of the settlement.

Geralt shrugged pensively, holding Roach's reins loosely just above the saddle as the stallion found its footing beneath him. "Not sure. Didn't sense any magic at work back there. My medallion's been silent since last night. Definitely something going on, though."

"What is it wit' that thing? Heard you mention it last night."

"The medallion? It's an artifact we're given once we survive the Trial of the Grasses and master our training. Resonates with magic, lets us know something's there even if we can't see it."

"Hm."

They picked their way back into the forest, turned right when the road split to continue heading north.

"Are you telling me, after coming face to face with that pesta, you _don't_ believe those people back there could be cursed...?"

Arthur made a low sound in his throat, gave the Witcher a narrow sideways look. "You said yourself your little magic doohickey there ain't been makin' any noise."

Geralt started to shrug, and then the shrug turned into a shiver. All of a sudden, the medallion around his neck _was_ making noise. Not an audible sound, as it were, but the snarling wolf's head vibrated with a low energy that almost seemed to tug at the chain it hung from.

"I mean, come on, a _curse? Really?"_ Arthur's voice went up an octave as he huffed indignantly.

"Shut up." Geralt narrowed his eyes, scanning the land in front of them. Up ahead, in something of a valley, the terrain sloped down and opened onto a lake. Mossy juts of rock created an uneven escarpment cut in two by a waterfall at the far side.

"Curses are very real. And can be very dangerous," Geralt muttered as he guided Roach a bit closer to the water. A putrid smell hit his heightened senses, made his nose wrinkle in disgust._ "Gods..."_ He recoiled, one hand going up instinctively to shield his face; not that it would help much.

"What?"

"You don't smell that?"

Arthur sniffed the air a little daintily. "I don-"

A deep, low rumbling interrupted him. Geralt saw the man's expression shift from careless concern to something more serious. Arthur's hand twitched for the revolver at his hip. "What the...?"

The rumbling cut off for a few moments and then started up again. Geralt snapped Roach's reins and continued on closer, albeit cautiously. He reached down and unclipped the scabbard of his silver sword from where it was stowed at Roach's side.

Arthur followed along tentatively behind him, squinting out at the rock face that marked the beginnings of Roanoke Ridge. To his mind, it sounded almost like the beginnings of an earthquake, though he hadn't experienced one of those since the gang had moved further east. And he didn't see any rocks shifting; the landscape appeared pristine.

"Oooouurggh..."

A boulder close by the water suddenly trembled. Geralt caught the movement and trained his catlike gaze on the object in question, put an arm out to signal Arthur to stop.

"Huh?"

_"Shh."_

The boulder flipped over. A dirty, yellowish belly was revealed, soft-looking in comparison to the rest of its hulking frame. Over flopped two huge, somewhat bulbous and mossy arms and small, powerful legs. "Ooohrgh..."

Arthur's eyes went wide. They were only fifty or so feet away, and he wasn't sure if he was seeing things correctly. "Did that...? What the..._what the hell is that?"_ His fingers moved closer to the butt of his revolver.

"That...is a rock troll," Geralt muttered matter-of-factly. "And a rather less-than-exemplary specimen." His brows furrowed. "Looks like it's hurt..."

"Good, that'll make it easier to kill." Arthur glanced over at Geralt, mouth thinned into a hard line as he put his hand on the gun. _"What the __hell__ is a rock troll?"_ he hissed in a sort of delayed reaction.

"They're monsters, but—hey—put your weapon away! They're not always aggressive."

Arthur swayed in the saddle as Enid pawed at the grass beneath him. His eyes darted back and forth between the Witcher and the massive troll rolling around on the ground before them. "So what, you wanna go see if it needs help!?" he asked incredulously, extending a hand out towards the creature.

Geralt said nothing, only looked back at him steadily for a moment before turning and hoisting a leg up so that he could slide down off the saddle. Once down, he slung the scabbard's strap over his shoulder and tightened it across his chest.

Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes up toward the sky._ "__For Christ's sakes," _he cursed under his breath. He could only follow suit, creeping up a few feet behind Geralt as the Witcher made his way calmly toward the troll. Arthur made sure to keep his hand hovered squarely over the revolver.

Suddenly a different kind of rumble actually _did_ cause the slightest tremble of earth beneath their feet; the creature had broken wind quite loudly, causing both men to stop in their tracks.

Geralt winced and Arthur's face became a mask of shock and confusion. And a few moments later, the smell hit them. A grimace crossed Geralt's features. He whipped his head around when he heard Arthur make a kind of strained burping noise; the outlaw was doubled over with one palm clapped to his mouth, trying very hard not to vomit all over his own boots.

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments. He exhaled a steadying breath, willed himself not to be hyperaware of the rancid odor the beast had expelled.

"Oouurgh...fishy no know...Grot no know...no homesways go..."

The thing had a voice like a ton of rocks being slowly ground into the earth. Deep and slow and resonating, _grating__, _it felt like thick mud being packed into Arthur's ears. _"__Jesus__,"_ he wheezed behind Geralt's back. "The goddamn thing _talks...!?"_

The monster heard him that time. Its moans abruptly stopped, replaced with a singular sharp grunt before it rolled up onto its side and angled its head, beady eyes narrowed at the two men.

Geralt strode forward, put his hands up preemptively to show the troll he meant no harm. "Take it easy, big guy."

"Mmn." The troll eyed the sword on his back._ "__Witcherses_. What Witcherses do in other-home?"

Geralt slowed his pace but took another step forward, kept his hands raised. "Other-home...? Is that what you're calling this place?"

"This _not_-home. So. Other-home." The troll appeared to shrug its massive craggy shoulders. Its stony brow drew down and it laboriously sat itself up. Its mouth was a broken, hideous cluster of sharp and jagged teeth that protruded from a flattened skull. "What Witcherses do here?"

Geralt slowly shook his head. "Not here to hurt you. Trying to find a way home, myself, actually."

"Mmn." The troll gave a slight nod, rested its huge knuckles on the ground at its sides. "Fishes-here smell good. Taste good. _Feel_ no-good. Give Grot belly-achings."

"Grot. That's your name?"

"Aye." The troll eyed Geralt warily. They heard its belly rumbling again.

"And you've...been eating the fish from this lake?" Geralt asked as he made his way towards the water's edge. He looked down as his boots squished into the mud, bent forward and sniffed the air over the shallows.

"Aye. Ouurgh..."

Arthur grimaced as he watched the troll out of the corner of his eye. Even after that thing's stink had dissipated, there was still an odd, cloying odor that hung in the air. His attention was drawn away toward the bushes for a moment when he saw movement; a scrawny beaver trundled out of the underbrush, looking much the worse for wear. Its fur was patchy in places, and where the skin was bare he could see what looked like open sores. "Uh...Geralt?"

Geralt turned, then pivoted and turned again to look where Arthur was pointing. The beaver scuttled across the mud, slid down into the water and swam off. "Something's not right here," Geralt remarked as his shrewd gaze moved back to Grot; the creature was rubbing its swollen belly tenderly. Geralt's eyebrows went up when he saw a little squirrel crawling up over the peak of the creature's mountainous back.

Grot grunted. The squirrel sat up and chittered. The troll reached up to scratch at the top of its head, beady eyes rolling upwards.

"You eat things like that, too?" Geralt nodded up toward the squirrel, which looked relatively healthy compared to that beaver they'd just seen.

Grot blinked. "Uh? Noo. No, Grot no eats furry-things. Grot fishes-eat. Drowners-eat. Mmn, sometimes peoples-eat." The troll nodded its head matter-of-factly. "Grot likes furry-things. Furry-soft. No eats or soups-make."

Arthur had been watching this interaction with a profoundly apprehensive look plastered on his face. At the mention of the troll sometimes eating humans, his hand shot back to the butt of the gun at his hip. "Now hold on just a goddamn second-"

Geralt put a hand out, gave Arthur a sharp and reproachful look as he strode forward between the other man and the creature. "Calm down. I'm sure he's only been eating the _'__hillbilly kin-fuckers,'_ anyway, haven't you, Grot?"

Grot blinked his inky black eyes, reached up to scratch the top of his skull once more. "What?"

The squirrel chirped again before its tail twitched and it glided down off the troll's back to disappear into the tall grass.

Arthur shook his head in disbelief, took a step back and brandished the gun despite Geralt's protests. "Oh no, you expect me to believe that? _Look_ at the goddamn thing! You're supposed to _kill_ monsters, not...not ask 'em about their fluffy little goddamn friends!"

A low grumble emitted from somewhere in Grot's chest. The troll pushed its knuckles into the ground and levered itself to its feet despite its digestive predicament, lumbering forward menacingly.

Arthur straightened his arm and trained the barrel of the revolver on the troll. He took another step back. "Don't you get any closer to me-"

Fed up, Geralt took a few quick strides forward and raised a hand, making a quick sign in the air with his fingers. "That's enough!"

Arthur blinked. He looked confused for a moment, brows furrowing as he glanced down at the gun in his hand like he wasn't sure how it had gotten there.

"We're going to help Grot with his little dilemma. Now I need you to put your gun away and think for me, Arthur. What do you use for an upset stomach?"

"I..." Arthur slowly re-holstered the revolver, then looked back to the Witcher with a glazed expression. "Uh, ginger root. S'always what Hosea uses."

"Good. Do you have any ginger root, Arthur?" Geralt asked slowly, as if he were speaking to a child.

Arthur's head dipped once more and his hands reached for his satchel, prying it open to rummage around inside. A few moments later he produced a small cloth bundle which he handed over to Geralt.

The Witcher took it, unwrapping the cloth to have a peek. Inside were a few chunks of bulbous, tawny-colored rootstock. He turned and offered it out to the troll.

"Witcherses help Grot's belly-achings?" the troll asked tentatively as it took a few lumbering steps forward to meet him, eyes swiveling back and forth between Geralt and the hypnotized outlaw.

Geralt shrugged. "If I had a bellyache, I'd like it if someone tried to help me."

Grot reached out and plucked the roots from Geralt's open palm. The troll examined them, brought its fist up to sniff and recoiled, letting out a disgruntled snort. "Agh! Spicy-smells!"

"What!? _Spicy!?_ I'm pretty sure you've been eating poisoned fish, Grot, I don't think you should be worried about a bit of spicy root-"

The troll grunted obstinately and shoved the handful of ginger back towards Geralt. "Grot no-wants spicy belly!"

The Witcher sighed in frustration and rolled his eyes as he reluctantly took the ginger back. He thought for a few moments before an idea struck him. "Arthur, do you know what sugar is? Do you have sugar here?"

Arthur blinked slowly, still blissfully unperturbed. "Sure."

"Do you have any _here__?_ With you?" Geralt asked pointedly; sometimes the Axii magic worked a little too well.

"In the saddlebags. Use it for my coffee."

"Go get it. What's coffee?"

Arthur obeyed without question. "It's a drink. Y'gotta brew it with water. Like tea," he muttered as he made his way back to Enid. "Perks you right up."

"Bring whatever you use to brew your coffee with, too," Geralt commanded as he moved off toward the tree line with the intent of gathering supplies to make a fire.

Meanwhile, that squirrel had made its way back up onto Grot's back. It cracked open an acorn with its teeth and gnawed away happily while the troll sighed and rumbled beneath it.

With Geralt's magic it didn't take long before they had a small campfire lit. He ground up the ginger root with his little mortar and pestle and sprinkled the powder into Arthur's percolator, along with the sugar. He let it boil for some time, looking up at one point to see a pair of bluejays perched atop the troll's back. A shadow of a wry smirk ticked up his mouth.

He knew Axii's magic would wear off soon, and had a very distinct feeling Arthur was not going to be pleased once he came back to his senses. Geralt wanted to get this over and done with quickly so that they could be on their way again. He took the percolator off the fire and set it down to cool.

Grot had stirred in the meantime, lumbering a bit closer at the enticing smell of the sweetened brew. "Sweet-smells. What soup-kind Witcherses makes?"

"Jesus, that there's a big fella," Arthur muttered mostly to himself, placidly hooking his hands over his gun belt.

"It's a special soup to help your guts. Here," Geralt replied as he popped the seal on a small vial and poured a crystalline powder into the percolator. The ginger tea immediately began to fizz, small beads of moisture effervescing over the rim.

Grot grunted curiously and took the vessel from him. Its flattened nose twitched and it upended the container, guzzling down the contents with no hesitation.

Geralt made a mental note to remember that the troll seemed to like the combination of sugar and fisstech. Information like that could prove useful in the future. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

The troll dropped the empty percolator. It grunted again, but otherwise just stood there wearing a funny look that almost resembled concentration.

Arthur made a noise behind him. Geralt chanced a glance back to see the outlaw shaking his head gently, looking confused. The hypnotizing magic of Axii was wearing off. He sighed, bent down to retrieve the empty percolator from the ground and snapped his fingers to extinguish the small campfire.

Grot opened his jagged mouth and belched loudly and quite suddenly, startling the Witcher and almost causing him to drop the empty coffee pot. He grit his teeth as the troll's pungent breath rolled over him in a nauseating wave.

"Mmn," Geralt groaned and took a step backwards, reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "I take it that means you're feeling a bit better?"

"Oh," Grot nodded emphatically, reached up to rest stony hands on its belly. "Fizzy-brew taste good. Witcherses more-make?"

Geralt shook his head. "No more left, Grot. Sorry. Don't eat any more fish from here," Geralt chided as he extended a hand towards the lake, "and you won't get anymore bellyaches."

Grot made a low noise. "Witcherses homes-goes?"

"I'm trying." Geralt narrowed his eyes and glanced back toward the horses. "Listen, Grot. My friend isn't in a very good mood. We've got to go soon. Did you come here through a portal?"

Grot nodded. "Shiny lights. Pretty. Made Grot want-touch. Hmm. When Grot touch, land-here."

Geralt nodded his understanding. "Arthur, get on back to your horse," he said, half-turning towards the outlaw. "We're leaving in a few moments. That portal...it closed? No more shiny light?" he asked, turning back to Grot.

The troll grunted. "No! Shiny lights, away go! But...nice-here. Lots of rocks. Hmm. And furry-things."

"Don't leave this lake, Grot. You've got to find something else to eat from now on, but you need to stay here and wait for the shiny lights to come back. Understand?"

"They will?"

Geralt nodded again. "Hopefully. And if I can open up another portal, I'll come back and find you. That a deal?"

The troll reached up and scratched its skull, angled its head almost like a dog would. "Witcherses would do for troll?"

"Yes. Witcherses _would_ do for troll," Geralt replied as he turned and whistled for Roach.

Arthur was already mounted up, squinting down at them from under the brim of his old gambler. Geralt grabbed Roach's reins and led the horse over, reached up to offer Arthur the empty percolator. "Let's go."

Arthur glanced up at the troll before swiping the container from Geralt and fixing him with an icy look that would send a lesser man scurrying. _"You hypnotized me..."_

"Mhm," Geralt replied nonchalantly as he turned and pulled himself up onto Roach's saddle. "You weren't listening to reason." He clicked his tongue and nudged his heels into Roach's sides to guide the horse into a trot. Best to get the angry cowboy away from Grot before they ended up in another standoff.

Arthur shot one more wary glare back at the troll that stood waving at them placidly before he muttered a forceful _"yaw,"_ and urged Enid to follow after Geralt and Roach. "I don't get you," he almost hissed, leaning forward in the saddle as they came up alongside.

Geralt glanced over. "What exactly is there not to get?" he asked, annoyed. "I take contracts on beasts that are terrorizing people. That troll isn't terrorizing anyone."

"You serious!? He's probably the thing that's been terrorizin' them folk at Butcher's Creek!" Arthur clamored emphatically.

Geralt shook his head. "I don't believe that for a second. Trolls are smarter than other beasts; reactionary, not instigators. If he was eating people, it was because they threatened him first."

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the white-haired Witcher. "Jesus Christ. You're just a regular goddamn diplomat, ain't you?"

Geralt shot him a narrow sideways glare. "I really don't understand your utter aversion to showing the least bit of compassion. I'm the one who's supposed to be stripped of emotion. This 'shoot first' mentality of yours is exhausting."

Arthur gaped at the other man as they ascended up into the hills that marked the start of Roanoke Ridge. "Any other mentality never got me very goddamn far," he muttered sulkily as he hunched back in the saddle. "Shootin' first is what keeps you alive."

Geralt scoffed and shook his head as he watched the trail ahead of them. "You sound like some bloody kings I've met. Learn to use some discretion, Arthur, that's all I'm saying. Diplomacy has its advantages."

"I think I been diplomatic as hell wit' you."

They argued well into the afternoon as they made their way northeast once again. The last straw for Arthur was when they made camp at the base of an embankment that evening and he'd wanted coffee, something warm against the chill of the air up in the hills. "You gave that thing all my goddamn sugar!?"


End file.
